A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret suffering, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music.
(Soren Kierkegaard)

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Battered

I cryapparently about nothing

No one hit meor beat meor assaulted mebut I feel allthat pain

fingering each palesilvery stiff scarand remember each bruiselike an old friend

I push into the purple heart
to see if itstill smarts
or if the ache is fading

I find I have injuriesin various stages of healing

My sister saysmuscle has memory

So
what is itthe left side of my bodyre-collectsas I lay like a corpsein an attemptto let it all fall away